Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

Randolph placed the switch list in the top desk drawer with the rest of the day’s small business. Reflecting that men came and went but customs procedures rarely changed without an act of Congress, he came back around.

And now Gomez was ready to negotiate. He said, “It will be no holdup. I feel a moral obligation to tell all that I know.” He paused there, head to one side, eyes alert on Burkett.

“Then talk,” Burkett prodded.

“On the other hand,” Gomez said, “Why should I pass up a chance at a little money?”

“How much?” Burkett asked again.

“Nothing at all like the half-million the woman wanted.”

“Tell the man.” Randolph’s own patience was wearing thin.

“Say ten percent of the five thousand.”

Burkett stared at Randolph. “I misjudged you. I apologize.”

“Don’t do it,” Randolph said. “I’ll have to take back all the ugly things I’ve thought about you.”

“You wouldn’t settle for so little. Fifty-thousand bucks is the figure named by a man who called the Project an hour after Henrietta did.”

Gomez said, “I called.”

“Well,” Burkett said, “pending the arrival of a representative of the Atomic Energy Commission, I have the power to negotiate.”

“Inside one hour,” Gomez said, “the bomb will probably be on its way. Inside five or six more, it will be in position. Only Suarez and I know where it is now, or where it will be then.”

“Let’s get on with it.”

Gomez turned to the door and they went outside in that order: Gomez first, then Burkett, then Randolph. The engine of the locomotive behind the customs house idled noisily, ready to pull out with the string of dark cars behind it. Five, Randolph noted, plus the caboose, which was backed up against the international gate.

He was thinking that in the ordinary manner, it would take weeks of waiting for a sum of money with which to pay an informer’s fee. He wondered if Burkett actually had money, or was he bluffing?

Gomez said, “This is no different than before, Juanito. I gave you information, and you gave me money for it. You might say that you showed me how to do it.”

Randolph couldn’t keep some of the tough hardness he felt out of his voice. “What the hell was all that other routine? The questions at the Alhambra? The search in the machine shop?”

Gomez was standing directly under one of the overhead lights. A film of sweat showed on his face, attesting to strain upon him. Light picked out glints of gold from his polished insignia.

“Like Henrietta, I had to find out if you were sent to interview her. I had to find out what she had told you. But until you saw the uranium scraps, I wasn’t even sure a bomb had actually been made. Now I am. Now I think I know where Suarez is.”

“You must have known Suarez killed Henrietta. How much more do you know? You must have been closer to him or her than you’ve led me to believe.”

Gomez shrugged. “Who knows for sure, what goes on in the mind of a madman? He wants to go down in history, maybe. These Cuban communistas are all mad. Or maybe this is a part of some great plan. Who knows?”

“And you know where El Cubano is now?” Burkett asked.

“With the bomb.”

“Well, where is it?”

Gomez turned slowly, raising his arm to point. Almost as though it was a signal, the tram began to move. Slack came crashing up between the couplers. Randolph hunched his shoulders against the startling clamor.

Gomez suddenly stepped against Burkett, who staggered under the impact. Gomez fell at Burkett’s feet.

Burkett and Randolph stared down at him. There was blood on the front of Burkett’s suit; there was blood spreading away from Gomez’ body.

When you’ve seen death a few times in its various forms; when you’ve seen the sudden pallor, the half-closed eyes, the silent, jointless form, you don’t need to feel a pulse or listen for a heartbeat to know.

And Randolph knew that in that brief moment of looking at and pointing to the noisy train, Vincent Gomez had been shot.

The winking lights on the caboose were growing smaller. The sound of the engine was fading, and the blast of the farewell whistle was ragged on the breeze.

Burkett said, “That shot came from the train.” His voice was as steady as though dead men at his feet were an every day occurrence.

Randolph had another thought which he did not want to put into words. Gomez had been standing between him and the train. Could the bullet that killed Gomez have been meant for him?

Burkett said, “When Gomez was hit and stumbled against me, his mouth was close to my ear. He said something that started out with a sibilant sound and ended with something that sounded like siete.”

“Seven. Could it have been part of a car number?” Randolph asked.

“Could have been.”

Somewhere close at hand a motor started and gears ground as an early trucker prepared to hit the road. The cool breeze seemed suddenly icy to Randolph, who started to trot back to the customs office.

Burkett was right behind him as he stepped through the doorway into the office. Randolph jerked open the top desk drawer, pulled out the switch list, and scanned it.